


The One That Got Away

by DiYunho



Category: DCU, Joker - Fandom, Suicide Squad (2016), The Joker - Fandom, The Joker dcu - Fandom, joker DCU
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bakery, Blindness, Comfort/Angst, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Drama, Drama & Romance, Emotional, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Roller Coaster, Emotionally Repressed, Emotions, F/M, Feelings, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Forbidden Love, Gang Violence, Gangs, Gangsters, Gotham City - Freeform, Gotham City Police Department, Heroes & Heroines, Joker - Freeform, Kidnapping, Love, Love Confessions, Love/Hate, Mobsters, Protective Bruce Wayne, Psychological Drama, Relationship(s), Rivalry, Romantic Fluff, The Joker - Freeform, The Joker Jared Leto, The Joker dcu, Tragedy, Villains, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Woman on Top, Women Being Awesome, Women In Power, charity - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-05-14 00:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19262254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiYunho/pseuds/DiYunho
Summary: The terrorist attack targeting Wayne National Bank nearly three years ago left only one survivor behind: Y/N almost died from the injuries, but she was lucky enough to wake up at the hospital days later. It was so hard to cope with the news: on top of losing her eyesight, the young woman lost her co-workers also and strangely enough the one responsible for the entire tragedy wasn’t The Clown Prince of Crime.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can also follow me on Tumblr and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho.

“They told me you’re here again,” you smile and there’s no answer. “Are you going to come in or do you want me to bring you something to eat? We’re closing soon, it’s almost 10pm.”

The blind Y/N extends the cane until it touches the recipient of her visit.

“I understand that you’re shy and there’s nothing wrong with it; you just need to tell me.”

“I’m not shy,” the deep tone interrupts.

“So are you coming in this time?” Y/N asks while the man grunts and she correctly guesses he’s getting up from his spot. “Follow me,” you encourage and he pulls the hoodie on his face, steadily walking behind the woman leading the way. “Today we have chicken soup and spaghetti with red sauce. That that I want to brag, but it turned out pretty good,” you giggle to lighten up the atmosphere: you’re aware it’s not easy for some living on the streets to acknowledge they require help.

“Mina!” you shout as you enter the spacious room. “Another portion please!”

“Sure thing!” the assistant’s energetic reply is perceived from beyond the counter.

“You can take a sit at any table, she’ll bring the food shortly,” you let him know and then loudly inquire: “Who else is here?”

“I’m here,” Silvia answers, slurping on her hot soup.

“Me too,” you hear Walter. “I also see Dave, Russell, Angie. The rest I’m not sure,” the 70 years old informs, pointing at the newcomer.

“Hey new guy, you have a name?” Angie licks her fork, digging in the pile of pasta afterwards.

The man is silent for a few moments, then mutters through his teeth:

“Jay.”

“You’re lucky there’s still food left, son! It’s crazy busy all the time,” Dave huffs. “This is the best Soup Kitchen in Gotham, and the lady standing in front of you a true angel!” one of the regulars states with such conviction it prompts cheers from the others left in the cafeteria at the end of the busy day.

“If only,” you laugh amused at the affirmation.

“Here you go; enjoy,“ Mina brings over a bowl of soup and a plate full of spaghetti to the man that’s been lurking around for the past two months but didn’t step into the building until today. Jay mumbles something resembling a “thanks” and by the sounds he makes slurping on the hot liquid one could say it’s very appreciated.

The volunteers would tell you if they spotted him outside the premises and you would usually take food to him, offering a place at a table which he refused; not the first or the last to show restrain when shown kindness.

You’re a bit surprised he decided to finally join the crowd; maybe he doesn’t like being around people.

“Mina, are you ok closing with John and Sandy? I have to open the bakery in the morning,” you explain although it’s not necessary.

“Yes, of course; told you should have went home an hour ago. They’re almost done with the dishes and we won’t have that much left to do after the last guests finish their meal. We’ll be fine, don’t worry. OK?” the young woman gives you a soft nudge towards the door and you feel the ground with the cane, eager to take a shower after the long day.

“Good night then,” you smile,” see you guys soon.”

“Good night!” several voices respond back.

The apartment is just three blocks away, conveniently situated on the top of the bakery you own: “Sweet Temptations” is one of the most popular bakeries in Gotham, slowly becoming a contender for the first position.

Once outside you stop for a few moments to enjoy the silence and the soft breeze on your cheeks before reprising your walk. Police cars alarms start blaring in the distance and you sigh, annoyed: quietness never lasts for too long in this damned city.

You turn left on Glissan Avenue and halt, carefully listening: you could swear you discerned some snickering ahead of you. Maybe not?…

A few more feet and your cane is abruptly yanked out of your hand, almost making you lose balance:

“Hey pretty girl, can I get a kiss in exchange for the stick?”

You straighten your shoulders, frowning:

“Randy, is that you?!”

“Umm…it’s possible,” he chuckles and you feel the air around, trying to find his body.

“I’m exhausted and not in the mood for your crap!” you admonish and want to continue but you get interrupted:

“I’m sorry, Y/N. You know my brother’s an idiot!…Hey…Hey!!!! What the…,” the other young man yells and the noise of a loud punch and broken bone startles you. “Hey, leave my brother alone!!!!…Oh shit!” the turmoil of a struggle and more ruckus indicating a fight make you frantically search for your cell in the purse.

“What’s going on?” you ask, scared at the moans of pain.

“I think he broke my nose,” Randy manages to utter still dizzy from the unexpected attack. His sibling Steve is trying to defend himself from the aggressor, apparently without too much success since the thud reaching your ears indicates he got thrown on the concrete pavement.

“If…if you’re The Batman, I can assure you I’m not in any kind of danger!” you pant, scared about whatever the hell is happening. “I know them, please stop!”

“It’s not…it’s not The Batman…” Randy gags, the taste of his own blood making him nauseated.

“I’m calling 911!” the cell phone is taken out of the bag and Randy shrieks:

“He’s running away…”

“Please don’t call the cops,” Steve mutters, not having the strength to get up yet. “I’m sure they’re not gonna like the fact that two teenagers fresh out of the juvie already got involved into an altercation.”

“I can testify you got assaulted!”

“Yeah, but you didn’t see anything,” Steve groans while his brother helps him up. “They might twist it against us and I don’t want to go back to detention.”

“Me neither,” Randy grumbles, wiping his bloody nose with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Did you see who it was?” you inquire, placing the phone in your pocket; you sure don’t want to create any more trouble for them.

“No,” the cane is returned to the anxious Y/N. “His mug was covered with a hoodie.”

***************

Next morning, 5:43am

The bell dinging makes you aware someone entered the bakery.

“I’m sorry, we’re still closed until 6am,” you announce to the customer while brewing a fresh pot of coffee.

“Hello Y/N, it’s me”, the familiar voice makes you smile.

“Good morning Mister Wayne; your box is ready,” you slide the package on the other side of the counter. 

“Thank God! I hate early corporate meetings and this amazing stuff makes me wake up a bit, enough to seem like I’m interested, you know?” he soundlessly yawns and you burst out laughing.

“I’m glad it helps. Coffee?”

“Please!”

“The usual?”

“Naaah. Surprise me,” Bruce smirks and watches Y/N quite fascinated as she puts together his drink. Even if she can’t see, she moves with such ease and he takes a remorseful deep breath, wishing he could share his thoughts.

“Here you go Mister Wayne, triple shot. I think you need it today,” you hand over his cup and he takes a sip, smacking his lips in the process.

“This is very good,” Bruce praises your skills because lingering around the bakery for a few minutes it’s so much better that the dreadful meeting he’s about to attend. He takes a big stack of money from the inside pocket of his suit and hands it over to you.

“Are these…are these hundreds?!” you inquire, puzzled.

The lack of an answer confirms it.

“Mister Wayne, you don’t have to do this each time you come in. This is just… a lot again and the total for your box is only 46 dollars.”

“If I want to leave a tip, then I will. Share with your employees,” the stubborn heir suggests because this is how he usually convinces you to accept the money.

You want to protest but he keeps rambling on:

“There are also two checks in there: one for my monthly contribution to your charity, the other one you could say it’s an investment. Entirely up to you of course, but I would love for you to expand your business: a location next to the Wayne Tower would make me very happy. Every time I’m there pretending to be working I could run and get me a delicious treat to make my day better. ”

You blankly stare at him, deciding to speak up.

“Mister Wayne…You don’t have to do this… It wasn’t your fault…”

Bruce is grateful you can’t see his painful grimace at the candid words meant to alleviate the guilt of an event he failed to predict as both the main shareholder of Gotham National Bank and as his alter ego.

“You are not responsible for the lives that were lost. You just owned the bank, nothing more. It was very unfortunate, but please stop blaming yourself.”

He doesn’t comment yet, oddly enough paying attention to Y/N’s advice.

“You might not realize it, but you make this city a better place Mister Wayne; your generous donations truly make a difference. With your aid, my charity allows me to literally assist hundreds of those in need. That wouldn’t be possible without you. Take The Batman too for example; because of him this town is safer: he can’t get rid of all the rotten evil eating away at its core, but his watchful eye is a tremendous boost of hope for the rest of us. One person can’t do everything and he is not accountable for every bad action he cannot stop. You’re not more responsible than he is for the fate of others.”

Bruce sniffles, somehow relieved by the sudden monologue.

“You’re a good man, Mister Wayne. The tabloids might depict you as a carefree playboy, still they should mention your achievements also. Or at least bring up some details about that nice cologne you wear,” you giggle and his body relaxes at the small joke after being tense throughout the whole speech.

“It’s Dior,” he admits with a grin meant to alleviate the seriousness of what you just told him. And Bruce certainly appreciates it since he had no idea how much he craved to hear a confirmation of his own flaw: he is human after all, either as the rich billionaire or as The Batman. “Thank you…” he briefly touches your fingers while taking the box from the counter.

“I meant it Mister Wayne.”

“I know…” he sighs. “Think about the business proposal, OK?”

“I will,” you promise although you are not convinced it’s such a great plan on top of the numerous projects you’re involved in.

“I’ll see you next week,” Bruce promises and exits the pastry shop, abandoning its owner until their upcoming rendezvous.

You feel sorry for him, you really do. You hope what you told him stuck in the back of his mind: remorse is a strong poison Bruce Wayne should stay away from at any cost, especially when he’s in the center of attention due to his social position. Plus, he’s not liable for the tragedy that occurred nearly three years ago, even if he believes otherwise…

You were working as a teller at Wayne National Bank for eight months and that day was nothing special until the shift was almost over. The 25 year old Y/N went downstairs with her drawer in order to go over her daily transactions and make sure there were no discrepancies. Moments later, a powerful explosion shook the building and leveled it out in a matter of seconds, taking down walls and people alike as it sunk into rubble.

The only survivor was you since you happened to be in the vault; the metal crate protected you from the blast and you were lucky the emergency response team dug you out from under the debris in time: Y/N nearly perished and woke up at the hospital days later blind and unable to cope with the news: on top of losing her eye-sight, she lost her co-workers too.

Bruce Wayne felt responsible: he took pride in having the most sophisticated and advanced security system in place, yet nothing is fool proof, including the engineers that built it and sold out the secrets to the wrong people for the right price.

The terrorist attack was claimed by the Triple Star gang, another one of their attempts to take over Gotham in the never-ending battle for the top spot with The Joker. And Gotham’s citizens got caught in the crossfire. Again.

Bruce paid for everyone’s funerals and handsomely rewarded the grieving families along with his public apologies; the media tried to shred him to pieces, dragging his name in the mud again. It all died out once the family members of those killed in the attack sided with the billionaire: there’s nothing more off-putting to the press than dust settling over sensationalism without backup evidence.

You used the share you received from your ex-employer to open the bakery and start the kitchen soup, both venues flourishing under your patronage. Bruce was a constant customer and donor from day one, which aided raise awareness to the point of Y/N becoming some sort of local celebrity: despite her blindness after surviving catastrophe, she found the strength to rise above the shattered pieces of her life and help the less fortunate, which gained her the nickname Angel of Gotham.

“Y/N,” Shane gets you out of trance, “do you want the chocolate croissants on top shelves today?”

“Yes, by the apple fritters and blueberry muffins,” you answer while the rest of the opening shift brings out the trays with freshly baked pastries from the kitchen.

The bell dings and Andy rushes in, frantically repeating:

“I know I’m late! I know I’m late!”

“AGAIN!!!” almost everyone teases in the same time, the choir urging more clumsy excuses:

“I know, ok? I’m deeply sorry. My car died out!”

“AGAIN!!!” the crew mocks and the poor guy sniffles, flustered to the maximum and you decide to give him a break.

“It’s fine; go wash your hands.”

“Y/N,” Andy halts in front of you. “Mister Wayne’s limo is parked outside and his chauffeur said he wants to talk to you.”

“He’s still here?!” you grab your stick and walk around the counter, heading outside the bakery.

“This way Miss,” the driver holds the limousine’s door opened until you get inside, slamming it shut as soon as you are next to your former boss. But something is off… the man doesn’t smell like Bruce’s cologne.

“Mister Wayne?…” you hesitantly mumble and the weird chuckle makes you cringe.

“Nope. Just rented a limo like his and waited until he left so I can take over. Luckily enough we saw an employee rushing in and he had no clue that the rich, pretty boy is not the one requesting a meeting.”

You panic and try to exit the car but it’s already moving and the door won’t open.

“Calm down, would you? If I wanted to hurt you I would have already done it.”

You exhale, nervously adjusting yourself in the comfortable seat.

“Who are you?” Y/N carefully stirs the conversation.

“A philanthropist interested in bestowing my fortune upon those in need,” the strange snickering comes to an end. “Here’s my business card,” your hands are placed on the person’s face without any warning. “Well, can you guess?”

“Umm…” you gulp, anxiously touching the skin. “Maybe mid-thirties…”

“Wow, that’s pretty good,” the man snorts, somewhat amused. “Go on.”

“Handsome…”

“Nailed it!!” he snarls and it gives you goosebumps.

“Green hair…”

His crazy silver grin diminishes a bit.

“Blue eyes,” and your eyes focusing on his astonish The Joker which is not an easy thing to accomplish.

“You…you can see!” he growls and your hands slide off his face. The King of Gotham had you on surveillance for months before he made contact today and nothing indicated the revelation he witnessed by pure chance.

“I was wondering if you‘ll show up,” your change in attitude baffles the usual emotionless King of Gotham. “Are you interested in money laundering throughout my charity?” you cold tone skips to the main topic. “Others have asked and no, I don’t do that; I don’t care about how much it would put back in my account. Dirty money has no place in my…”

“Says the perfect Angel lying to the world about her handicap,” The Joker sarcastically cuts you out.

“I’m not lying,” you mutter. “My vision comes and goes, it’s a neurological anomaly after the injury I sustained. I was warned that might happen and frankly I don’t have to announce it on TV or to my doctor when I’m blind and when I’m not. It’s easier to deal with it since at one point I might find myself in the blackness forever.”

“Interesting,“ The Joker huffs, crossing his legs. “I couldn’t care less about your sneaky ways; I’m not here to negotiate a deal. I’m here to get what I want. Money laundry will bring you more funds to do whatever the hell you do, help people and all that,” J flares his arms around, done with the charade.

“Yes, I help them and you kill them,” Y/N gives The Clown a mean glare. “Or beat them up for no reason,” you hint at the two teenagers he attacked since you actually saw him do it.

“Somebody gotta keep the balance,” he jokes about it like it’s some kind of funny topic.

“Mister Joker, I am here to help people and that’s it, “an apparent serene Y/N grumbles even if her heart is pounding out of her chest. “Can you please drop me off at the back entrance of my bakery? If I go missing or end up dead, people will notice. My disappearance or demise wouldn’t go unnoticed and you don’t need more unwanted attention, do you?” you play the best card you have because frankly you have zero aces in your sleeve.

The Joker sucks on his teeth, debating upon this dumfounding outcome that didn’t ruin his day; from time to time he loves a good challenge and the opportunity basically jumped at him so to speak. He gets easily bored and shit, this little project isn’t boring at all. Turned out to be quite interesting.

“Hey Frost!” The Joker shouts. “Let’s take McGillivray Street and return this lost Angel to her business. We don’t want a poor blind woman to get lost in this huge city; we’ll consider this our good deed for the year!”

“Of course sir,” the henchman switches lanes and you strive to remain composed because showing weakness could mean disaster while in the company of the unpredictable psychopath.

The limo takes a left and in a few seconds you reach your destination since Frost basically just slowly drove around the block. The fancy vehicle stops and you get out, preparing to bail when The Joker interrogates:

“Who are you really, hm?” J suspiciously squints his eyes.

You bent over to look at him, cautiously choosing your words:

“I’m the one that got away, Mister Joker. The only one.”

He puffs, signaling you to close the door.

“Good for you, sugar. We’ll keep in touch,” and he yanks the door out of your hand since he doesn’t have patience to wait for you to close it.

Oh my God, you think and reprise your stroll, sensing the concrete with the walking stick. What was that?! you shiver, just a few feet away from the back entrance of the pastry shop. How am I… but you can’t continue the argument since a van slams the breaks right by you, five guys quickly running out and pulling you inside.

“Did you see that boss?” Frost inquires, still waiting at the red light while watching the rearview mirror. “It was so fast nobody noticed.”

“It’s them,” The Joker sneers.

“Do we… … do anything?” Jonny throws the option out there for the heck of it.

“Do you have to fucking ask??!!” his boss shouts. “This is my goddamned town, not theirs! I decide who lives or dies, who gets kidnapped and who doesn’t. ME, not the Triple Star gang!!! I am sick of them interfering with my plans!”

“Call for reinforcements and discreetly follow?”

“No, tell the guys waiting to escort us on Andresen Avenue to intercept the van and follow it. We need a plan.”

“Yes sir,” Frost smirks, craving to take on another invigorating assignment since today was quite a dull day. 

Back in the van, the men keeping you captive in between them didn’t articulate a single sentence yet. They have no clue you can see so they didn’t bother cover your head with a cloth. You know The King of Gotham is not present but you have to go on with it; what other choice do you have in this dangerous situation?

“Mister… Mister Joker?” you plead. “I’m sure we can…”

“The Joker?!” somebody laughs, finally talking and everyone snickers like it’s the best stand –up comedy act they ever heard. “No honey: this is the competition.”  
**************

Five days afterwards, 6pm

Everyone at the soup kitchen is eating in silence, the usual cheerful chit chatting absent from the premises: Y/N has been missing for five days, gone without a trace and despite all the efforts, her whereabouts are still unknown.

“Something bad happened,” Mike shakes his head, worried. “I can feel it,” he wipes his teary eyes.

“She wouldn’t just abandon everything and flee…” Clara whispers to her fellow table mates. “I’ve been homeless for a long time and this is the first place I found some real help, you know? Thanks to her I have a job interview next week,” the woman’s voice breaks. “Nobody would give me a chance and she put in a good word; I might have an opportunity to actually…” Clara blows her nose in a tissue, unable to finish her confession.

“We’re in the same boat,” George turns around from the nearby table and his eyes get big when he recognized who the man entering the establishment is. “Holy…”

The Joker is holding Y/N in his arms, both looking like they escaped a war: dusty, ripped clothes and visible bruises to match the unusual view seen by the 137 souls eating there for the moment. You are unconscious and a few people try to get up, startled.

“SIT DOWN!!!” The Joker screams, lifting you higher in his arms.

“Mister Joker, we gotta go!” Frost advises while keeping the door opened; the other goons temporarily blocked the traffic at The Clown’s orders. A few onlookers on the street are already dialing 911 and J is aware he can’t linger, but he won’t ignore an outburst either:

“Tell everyone The Devil brought your Angel back !! ME, not The Batman!!!” the insane green haired man barks. “Not all heroes wear capes, huh?!” he addresses everyone as he places you on an empty bench and hurries outside, taking one last glance behind to see a weary Y/N barely opening her eyes that cannot focus.

And The Joker knows that after the events he whiteness too, The Angel of Gotham is in complete darkness again.


	2. Chapter 2

Four weeks later

“Now we’re going up five steps,” Bruce announces and you carefully walk holding on to his arm. “Almost there. Do you want more champagne or a cocktail?”

“Actually Mister Wayne, I would like a shot of whiskey,” you reply and he signals the bartender.

“I wouldn’t mind one either,” he adds and orders: “Two shots of whiskey please!”

“How long do we have to be here?” you exhale, enjoying the ambiance nevertheless. You wish this could be one of the instances when you are able to see; it must be a really fancy venue. Unfortunately, your vision didn’t return at all after the incident leading up to The Joker saving you from the Triple Star gang.

“Maybe another hour or so, unless you don’t feel well and then I can drive you back to your apartment.”

“I’m ok, no worries. It’s just a bit weird: I’m not used to this kind of stuff,” a nervous Y/N confesses.

“Charity balls can be overwhelming,” Bruce nods in agreement. “Everyone talks and talks, eats, drinks and talks some more. The purpose is to make these rich people give up on their money for good causes so it’s worth it.”

You laugh at his honesty, making sure to underline you’re grateful for the opportunity:

“Thank you for including my charity; I really appreciate it and it means a lot. I will be able to help more people.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Bruce sighs, grabbing the drinks from the bartender. “Here you go,” the glass is given to you. “Since this year it was my turn to organize the event, might as well use the hype from what happened to the Angel of Gotham and get you more funding. Sorry, I don’t want to sound insensitive,” he apologizes when he notices the change in your mood. “That was stupid to say,” Bruce admonishes himself and you try to stir the conversation towards another topic.

“It’s fine; I understand what you mean, Mister Wayne,” you taste a sip of alcohol and continue. “If you want to ask any questions about what happened… you can.”

The billionaire puckers his lips, debating on the unexpected chance to dig out some information that could shed some light on your abduction and surprising intervention from The Clown Prince of Crime. He did read the police report with your statement courtesy of Commissar Gordon, yet off the record discussion is more than welcomed. 

“Let’s go on the terrace then for more privacy,” he suggests and you take Bruce’s arm again, following his guidance.

You pass by people engaged in several chats, hoping nobody will stop you for trivial interrogations you’re not comfortable answering. 

“Did they… did they…e-hem… do… anything…ummm…to you?” Bruce stutters because he has no idea how to convey the inquiry without sounding like a total jerk invading your personal life.

“I said it to the cops also: no, I wasn’t sexually assaulted,” you reaffirm and he grumbles, relieved.

“Thank goodness,” the 35 year old taps your fingers. “I don’t even know why my mouth even uttered such rubbish…I know it’s none of my business,” and he immediately corrects the sentence. “As in of course I would care about something like that, but I shouldn’t force you to share.”

“You’re digging your own grave, Mister Wayne,” you interrupt his tirade since he doesn’t know how to handle the situation.

“Uh, I know. I’m sorry Y/N,” and you laughter makes him chuckle too. “Bad luck,“ Bruce concludes as soon as you are both on the patio. “There are lots of people outside; do you mind using the small conference room? It’s empty,” he gazes through the opened glass doors and you follow him, compliant.

“Of course, no problem.”

“Let’s take a sit on this purple couch,” he urges and you oblige, smiling:

“So many purple items around here,” Y/N has to emphasize because Bruce kept on describing the environment to her and that stood out. “A splash of color never hurts; it must be really nice.”

“I like purple; it’s my favorite color,” he stares at you, searching for a reaction when the tip of the knife he’s holding almost touches your cornea. But there’s no reflex and the man smirks, returning the blade to his pocket. He drinks some more, restarting the debriefing:

“Do you know where you were taken? I mean, I know you are not able to see, still did anything catch your attention? Any noises? Particular smells?”

“No, nothing” you pout. “I assume it was outside town: it was quiet and Gotham is never silent. They transported me in a van, a larger vehicle. I’m sure of that since there were several individuals with me. A few moments after being kidnapped I was hit in the head and passed out.”

And when you woke up you were blind again, not that Bruce needs to know.

“I think I was locked in a basement, very tiny space…I was given some food and water. I lost track of time and at one point I heard someone yelling that The Joker arrived, then a lot of turmoil and a harsh argument. It worsened and almost lost my mind when the shooting started: I was so scared and had no clue about what the hell was happening.”

You pause and gulp, the memory of the frightful circumstances making you shrug.

“My apologies,” Bruce remorsefully hums. “I shouldn’t make you recall such an unpleasant experience… I will get us some grape juice on ice.”

“Grape juice?…” you take advantage of the welcomed change in topic. Great way to divert your attention from the anxiety you feel while saying out loud what you already disclosed to the cops.

“It’s such a refreshing beverage; I can’t live without it,” he admits and tries to stand up but you stop him.

“Please don’t go; if someone stumbles upon this room in your absence it will be awkward for me; you’re the only person I know at this reception.”

“Of course,” Bruce agrees right away. “I’m definitely not in my best shape today; we can go and get the drinks together.”

“That’s better,” you smile yet don’t show any signs you want to move so he patiently waits; the philanthropist assumes there’s more you wish to say and he doesn’t push for a continuation of your story.

Y/N finishes the drink and glares at the man veiled in darkness just like everything else surrounding her. 

“Do you know what the scariest part was, Mister Wayne?”

Complete stillness and you whisper:

“When I heard somebody screamed: Grenade! It was such a powerful explosion, it reminded me of what happened that day at the bank…”

Bruce doesn’t respond and a tearful Y/N wraps up her story in a way that makes her date impatient for the grand finale:

“The air was so thick I couldn’t even breathe and I fainted. I remember hands digging me out from under the rubble, words and sentences I couldn’t comprehend since I was drifting in and out of consciousness. And then I woke up at the hospital…”

“Mmm…” Bruce pouts. “Do you have any idea why The Joker saved you?”

“I was told about the incident at my Soup Kitchen…and I was shocked. I have no idea why he did that…” you reveal not mentioning you spent countless hours debating about it.

“Possibly because he’s sick and tired of The Triple Star gang meddling with his plans? What kind of stupid name is that anyway? Triple Star!!” he hisses. “Do you know they all have three star tattooed on their backs?! Who does that anymore?! What are they?! Kindergarten brats?!”

Why is Bruce getting so mad?!

“The Joker owns Gotham! Nobody else!!!”

You’re a bit uncomfortable with his rant and it shows.

“Mister Wayne…”

He has no more patience and you get cut off:

“You know why The Joker rescued you? Because he needs you for something, otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered. And to prove he’s in charge and not the competition!”

“Mister Wayne, please calm down. You’re making me nervous…” a concerned Y/N pleads.

The man scoffs, straining to regain control over himself.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he chuckles and takes your hand into his, amused by what he’s about to divulge. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Y-yes, of course,” you stammer and want to continue when he reaches over and kisses you, biting your lower lip seconds afterwards.

You wince in pain, freezing when the tone changes to one you hoped you won’t hear again:

“Oh my; am I too rough, sugar?”

You yank your hands away but he won’t let go.

“What is this?!” you pant, struggling to distance yourself from The Joker without success.

He laughs with all his heart, enjoying your stunned attitude.

“It’s your old pal J with the best voice synthesizer money can buy. It’s not that hard to copy someone’s voice with these things, especially since you can find interviews online with the pretty boy.”

You stop fighting his clasp and carefully listen to the wireless mike hidden in your ear:

“Remain calm, Y/N! No matter what you do, don’t set him off!”

The Clown Prince of Crime though has to brag about his achievement and makes sure to bring you up to speed:

“I picked you up in my limo before he did; the rich boy probably wondered where you were when he showed up at your apartment. Congratulations, sugar: you just stood up a billionaire,” the green haired madman snickers. “I have plenty of resources to recreate a party and people that work for me to pose as guests. You’re not at a charity ball, sugar; I simply took you to one of my humble abodes.” 

You feel so exposed, yet your current situation demands a strong determination to help maintain the appearances. The Joker’s fingers suddenly go around your neck, the immediate threat resonating in the room:

“You will do money laundering for me! You will do as I say or I’ll make your life a living hell to the point of you now knowing what’s real and what’s not! Do I make myself clear?!!” he snaps and you nod a yes, obedient to his request.

“Good girl,” he sniffs your scent. “Now I should take you back, I’m tired with the charade; it was fun but exhausting,” he grins and can’t shut up: “The pretty boy must be wondering where you are.”

You want to hold in the defiant remark but can’t:

“What makes you think Mister Wayne doesn’t know where I am?”

“Oh shit!” you hear in your ear. “We’re moving in!”

The Joker frowns, intrigued: the red dots focusing on his chest are an affirmation of snipers ready to take him out.

“What did you do, sugar?” he barks and takes the knife out of his pocket, stabbing your abdomen: the resistance he encounters gives another clue he got played. Y/N is wearing a customized bullet proof vest under her cocktail dress but it’s not enough to stop the blade.

“T-thank you…” you have time to tell him before they barge in.

“For what?” he resentfully snarls, removing the knife from your body.

“For proving you don’t deserve to be saved,” you admit with such serenity he’s thrown off for once.

The noise of broken glass and shattered objects makes you jump as you moan in pain.

“On your knees!!!” the squad barges in, aiming their rifles at The Joker. “Drop the weapon! NOW!”

The gun shots echoing throughout the house are a logical testimony that the SWAT team is swiping out the premises, taking out those from The Joker’s crew daring to fight back.

“Hands above your head!” the team leader shouts and the kneeled King of Gotham obeys with a demented smirk as the knife he dropped is being kicked away from him.

“Civilian hurt, requiring medical assistance!” another team member requests, pressing on your wound. “Don’t worry Miss, you’ll be fine. OK?” the guy reassures. “You were very brave,” he praises your skills.  
You lay down on the couch, shaking from the throbbing ache. 

“I don’t feel very brave…”

**************

5 Months Later, Arkham Asylum

The buzz lets you know the 6th gate for Level 1 Clarence is opened and you can pass towards you final destination: the highest security area inside the Arkham Asylum reserved for the most dangerous criminally insane.

“Here she is,” the guard points at the one of the screens depicting Y/N searching the space in front of her with the cane. “Punctual as always,” he tries to joke with Bruce Wayne.

“I know,” he flatly responds. “I’m the one that brings her here.”

The head of security gives the guard a disapproving gaze and the subaltern shuts it down, pretending not to notice the sour expression on his boss’s face.

The four men present watch the monitors in silence while a geared up staff member helps you enter the interrogation room where The Joker already awaits, tight up in his straightjacket and chained up to the floor. You take a sit across from his chair, the white table separating the two people being the only object standing out in the padded room.

The Clown intensely stares at the table and you blankly glare at him; that’s how every visit goes: 10 minutes every week on Wednesdays, perfect quietness since he didn’t articulate a single word after he was captured 5 months ago.

The Arkham Asylum patients are not allowed to have visitors, yet Bruce Wayne and his lawyers found a loophole that allows Y/N to briefly visit The King of Gotham once every seven days. That’s all they were able to obtain without going to court and it was fine with you: it’s better than nothing so you didn’t argue.

The Joker has the right to refuse the visit but he never does: he shows up for the short meetings, not talking nor looking your way. Who knows what’s going on in his brain besides the obvious insanity?…

“I admire her courage,” the head of security addresses Commissar Gordon since he’s the fourth person there. “Even if I don’t get it: why would she want to be around a crazy psychopath? He tried to murder her!”

Jim scratches his chin, sharing a theory him and Bruce talked about:

“He didn’t aim to kill, otherwise he would have cut her throat or stabbed her in the head. I suppose that in his twisted mind he sees Y/N as a worthy adversary because I’m sure he didn’t expect a blind woman to give him so much trouble. We’ve been trying to catch him for a long time and we finally succeeded thanks to her agreeing to be the bait. When we approached Y/N with the idea, we knew he might target her after he saved her from the kidnappers. There’s no way The Joker would do something like that without a purpose. We discretely guarded her 24/7 and made sure to stay out of sight in order not to arise any suspicions since he was watching for sure. He’s not stupid: he planned his scheme carefully and maybe we had sheer luck with the whole operation. Who knows?”

“Sorry to interrupt,” the guard gestures at the screen. “I think he said something!”

“Holy crap!” Gordon blurs out. “Rewind and turn up the volume!”

The camera feed is replayed for the small group watching the short conversation that just took place.

“Can I help you?” The Joker’s husky tone is discerned.

“No,” the indifferent Y/N instantly replies.

“I’ll be damned!” the guard opens his mouth in amazement. “He talked to her!”

The monitor reverts to live broadcast and everyone holds their breath when you get up from your chair and J protests:

“Your 10 minutes aren’t up yet!”

You’re still standing and he wiggles in his straightjacket, uncomfortable.

“I have this strand of hair tickling my cheek; drives me nuts. Would you fix my locks? I can’t do it myself since I’m in a little bit of predicament for the moment.”

They watch you walk around the table and searching around with your hands while the madman grins, actually guiding you.

“Two more steps to your left. Now one more straight forwards. Another one. Jackpot!” he purrs when your fingers search for the strand of green hair you cannot see, but it’s not that hard to find.

“Alert the wards to intervene!” the head of security orders but Gordon has a different opinion:

“No, let her do it if she wants to.”

You caress his hair a few times, turning around to go back to your chair.

“Thank you sugar,” J sarcastically offers fake gratitude. “I truly don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Yes, you’re fortunate The Angel of Gotham took pity on you and got rid of that horrible itch.”

The Joker can’t hold in a disturbing laugh since he finds your statement entertaining by his quirky standards.

“I’m honored. Hey… hey, come back here: I have another itch you can scratch!”

You get ready to criticize his remark and he’s aware.

“It’s my collar bone, sugar! I’m not a perv, don’t get worked up for nothing!” The Clown pretends to get angry at your assumption.

You return by his side and bury your fingers in his jacket, gently scratching the soft skin.

“That’s moooore like it,” he purrs louder, the satisfying groan making you retract your arm. “Ahhh, so nice of you to help a friend in need,” the entitled silver smile dies out on his lips once you interrupt:

“We’re not friends!”

“Of course we are,” he sneers. “I stabbed you: that’s how I seal the deal.”

Gordon furrows his eyebrows, totally captivated by the chat.

“What is she doing?…” he asks as a rhetorical question and Bruce enlightens everyone anyway:

“Playing his game…”

Back in the padded room you stump back to your spot and grab your cane, preparing to bail. 

“Are you gonna come see me again?” The Joker curiously demands to know.

“No.”

“Why not?”

You huff and he cackles, entertained:

“That’s fine, I’ll survive: just like you survived the Wayne Bank terrorist attack and the basement I dug you out of.”

It’s so hard not to fight his venomous barking.

But you keep it together and the custodian opens the door, a weary Y/N emerging from her weekly visit with The Joker yelling and squirming behind her, enraged he cannot escape confinement:

“Who dug you out, huh? Who dug you out? Was it The Batman? The police? Or me?”

He’s becoming more and more agitated, the chief of security pressing a button that opens a sealed exit to The Joker’s left.

“Sedate him,” he commands the six caretakers rushing in while The Clown keeps screaming:

“Get back here!! That’s an order!!” and your disobedience prompts another tantrum as they inject him with the sleep medicine: “Who do you think you are, hm?” he shouts so loud it finally triggers a reaction from your part; you slowly spin towards him, making sure to articulate the perfect words:

“I’m the one that got away.”


End file.
